


Sad FM fic dump

by chesslyfe5eva



Category: Disco Elysium
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 10:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21474169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesslyfe5eva/pseuds/chesslyfe5eva
Summary: I'm sorry I got you shot, Kim.(Someone write fanfic for this fandom already.)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 91





	Sad FM fic dump

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Sad FM фик](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332541) by [Kapitanka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kapitanka/pseuds/Kapitanka)

You no longer live on 11 Voyager Road. You no longer live in a cramped room on the second floor of Whirling in Rags either. You weave in and out of motels around Jamrock, surviving on your meager pay as a patrol officer. Nothing has changed except for one thing you don't dare to put a word to. It's a butterfly on your shoulder, bound to take off as soon as you turn to it.

Martinaise is still most of your world. Your only friend is still a man who's known you for a week--a man who, I might add, is currently in a hospital because of you. 

**Volition:** It's the fault of the people who shot him.  
**Logic:** He is only your friend because he has known you for a week.

You visit him there shortly after the case is over. A long, unnervingly thick tube snakes its way under his sleeve and into his chest. Hard water deposits line the disposable plastic. As generous as Precinct 57 is compared to yours, even they expect the immune system to do some of the hard work. He coughs and puts on his glasses as you come in, and for the first time, you realize that you have never seen him without the glasses or the orange bomber jacket. He is smaller without the jacket. The stark lighting highlights the lines on his face. He looks so damn tired. You wonder if it was the bullet or the week with you. 

You tell him about the Deserter, lie that everything is fine with 41 and then...nothing. It was so easy to talk when you had distractions. When you didn't have to look at that damn tube in his chest. There is one other thing you could tell him, to comfort him as much as yourself, but enough people think you insane already.

**Electrochemistry:** You see that? On the table? Beside the bed? Bottles and bottles of opioids, not much, but enough for even you. Enough to give you give you the sweet, warm oblivion of death without any of the actual death. Think of how it would feel when that damn leg is quiet. Hell, you can probably shoot the breeze with Kim like the old times if you weren't so damn inhibited.  
**Volition:** Shoot the breeze with Kim? After you stole his meds?

"I'll get that hubcap back for you. Maybe I'll get you a better one."

"There's really no need," says Kim.

**Empathy:** He can see the state you're in. Disheveled, red-eyed, limping and still wearing the mismatching clothes you found in Martinaise.

You can't stand it anymore. 

"Kim, remember the cryptozoologists?" you say with a rush of pride. "Remember how much you complained about running trap to trap and finding nothing? Guess what? I saw the plasmid! The kid saw it too. It's real. It's simple. It's beautiful. Its mind is a tunnel and when it feels anything, it feels nothing except the world outside and the warmth inside its body. And empathy. Oh, god, it's the kindest creature I met. It said our brains are a kaleidoscope of fire and writhing glass. Pain. Damnation. But we survive. I think it admires us. It said it loved us. I wish you had been there."

Immediately, you're aware of idiotic you sound. Your only proof of it all is a drug-addicted child. God, you miss Comrade Pilsner. Everything you say sounds so reasonable with Comrade Pilsner in the system.

Yet you can't keep it in you. Every day you return to your empty motel room, sit on your stained mattress and attempt to think of a hobby with nothing but the radio for company. Every day you wish for something to take you away: drugs, a new case or even just death. Every day your fingers hover over the receiver of the motel phone--waiting or holding back, you don't know. And every night you dream of her. Like before, yet unlike before. Now you feel eyes on your back. You stumble around the world still, seconds away from tripping over yourself, but the ground is no longer a pit that you fall into eternally. It is simply a ground. And you like to hope that whatever watches you will pick you up after you fall. "Bud from you, blossom-like, carry you apart in a sky funeral."

_Is it insane, Kim? Am I wrong? Do you think I am insane? Don't tell me I am hopeless. Not you. _

Kim adjusts his glasses and narrows his eyes. It's not disapproval as much as an examination. "Thank you, detective," he says at last. He coughs and gives a weak smile. "I suppose we are so used to living we forget to commend ourselves for it. But you're right, we should. I'm glad that I am alive. And I am glad you are as well."

Of course he doesn't see what you see. But he understands, and in that moment, it's enough.


End file.
